


Even When All the Gnomes Are Gone

by verbaepulchellae



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns to London, John Watson isn't at 221 Baker Street. He's been institutionalized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even When All the Gnomes Are Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real experience or extensive knowledge of mental illness, so I'm sure (positive) that there are inaccuracies galore. But yeah, this is a fictional work, so no intended offense to anyone. I feel like that is important to say...

Sherlock had never liked hospitals. This dislike wasn’t logical, he had never spent much time in hospitals, never been admitted as a child, never had a bad experience with a doctor or surgery, never had to stay over night. Even when he had been in throes of drug abuse, Sherlock had never had any real contact with doctors. So no, there was no deep secret in his childhood, no scarring memories, no connections to loosing anyone there; hospitals were just one of the things that Sherlock let himself dislike without reason.

Now, walking down the quiet halls of the asylum, Sherlock is undeniably uncomfortable. The nurses have done their best to make things pleasant, the walls have been painted not the awful, sterile white of the rest of the hospital, but a soft cream color and an array of lovely pictures hang from the walls. Soft classical music is playing overhead and all the nurses smile at Sherlock when he breezes past. It’s nice, but it’s still a hospital.

Nurse Anne shows him to the main common room, she’s on the younger side of the nurses; curly red hair pinned up on her head and she her teeth reflect years of braces but a slack regime with a retainer. She pauses at the large double doors on the right side of the hall and motions to Sherlock. As he tries to step past her, she lays a hand on his elbow.

“Mr. Holmes,” she says in her Welsh accent, “A lot of people come in here expecting one thing… I just want to let you know, it’s better not to have any expectations. It’s easier.” Sherlock drops his arm out from under her hand and opens the door. There are several patients milling about; two old men are playing chess in a corner, a young woman no older than 25 is holding a book but simply staring at the words without reading them. A man in his fifties paces the room, mumbling under his breath, and John…. John is sitting on the couch, smiling as he looks out the window. And Sherlock breaths a sigh of relief, because obviously there’s been a mistake. John is not insane, not when he looks like that. Not when he’s smiling and is so at peace with himself.

Thank God, Sherlock thinks as he crosses the room, thank God, thank God, I can bring him home.

“John,” he says as he stops in front of the couch. “John, what on Earth are you doing here?”

John turns his head; smile still gracing his lips, looks up at Sherlock and says, “No, I’m sorry, we’re not renting out the gnomes today. Bad harvest. Too much rain.”

Sherlock feels as if he’s been punched. He stares at John, dumbfounded and John smiles serenely back. “If you’ve come for lobsters, I have a few of those. They’re all orange, though, so mind the seeds.”

“John,” Sherlock says as evenly as he can. “John, it’s me. Sherlock.”

“No, no, I’m afraid I don’t have any of those. Do you like bricks? They crushed us in the war; I’ve got a few scars. Don’t mind though, they’re made of jelly.”

Nurse Anne appears at Sherlock’s shoulder. “John, dear,” she says with a smile, “don’t you recognize Mr. Homes? You were flat mates.”

John’s smile changes as he looks at Anne, becoming as sweet as a child looking at their mother. “Do you know,” he tells her, “I once got a prize for brewing the best cup of tea?”

“You’ve told me, dear. Won’t you say hello to Mr. Holmes. He’s come to see you.”

John looks confused for a moment and then looks back at Sherlock. “Have you come for the Gnomes then? I’m sorry; they’re all swollen. I tried to save them, I did.” John becomes agitated, twisting his hands and frowning down at them. “I gave them all Wellies,” he insists as he looks back up. His blue eyes are wide and there’s childish fear in them. Sherlock doesn’t see John at all.

Sherlock quickly turns away. He hears Nurse Anne gently reassure John that she’s sure he did his best, and then he realizes that he’s sitting in the faculty longue and Anne is coaxing him to take a cup of tea. He takes it, gratefully, and sips at it.

“What can I do?” he asks quietly.

Anne gently lays a hand on his arm. “Our doctors are doing everything they can to help him, but prognosis itself is grim. There’s a family history of mental illness, one that seems to have manifested itself as mostly addictive disorders; alcoholism and the like… In John’s case it’s something different. Right now, there’s nothing to do but to keep him happy and try to stabilize his condition as much as possible.”

“Can I take him home?” Sherlock asks.

Anne shakes her head. “We can only discharge patients to family members. And it would be an awful lot of trouble for you, even if we could. I promise that John is best off here.”

“I see, thank you,” Sherlock says.

*

Nothing had prepared him for it, not Mrs. Hudson’s tears or Lestrade’s set mouth and stubbornly thrust out chin, not even Mycroft’s proffered cigarette, none of it. Sherlock doesn’t believe it at first, he throws himself into research, devours books and doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, refuses phone and social calls alike, only takes breaks to visit John.

John is much the same from day to day. He’s docile and sweet, comes to recognize Sherlock when he stops by and always greets him the same way, “No, no gnomes today,” usually with a smile. Anne is always nearby. She’s good with John in a way that makes Sherlock ache in his chest. She’s so patient and kind in a way Sherlock has no hope of ever being. His only hope is find a way to bring John back to himself, and so after every visit he returns to his books with a fervor that makes Mrs. Hudson stifle a sob every time she stops by to bring him tea.

 

*

 

“No, no gnomes today,” John says happily as Sherlock slides into a seat across the table from John, “but I have got some lovely shrubs.”

“Are you a gardener?” Sherlock asks as he shuffles the deck of cards. John loves card games, something Sherlock never knew before. He had visited one afternoon to find Harry playing John in Go Fish, and he found from Harry that John had been ace at cards in his twenties. Now John can manage a game or two of something simple before he gets frustrated.

“No, not a gardener,” John says “Are we going to play cards?”

“If you want to, yes.” Sherlock says.

“Did you know, I won a prize once.” John says as Sherlock passes him cards.

“Did you?” Sherlock asks. John tells this story every time he comes.

“Yes, for the best cup of tea. I made it myself.” John sneaks a look up at Sherlock, a proud look on his face that makes Sherlock feel sick, makes him want to shoot up just to get away from it.

“Well done you.” Sherlock says with a forced smile. John’s smile widens and his picks up the cards, looking at them curiously.

“Sherlock,” John says, with none of the frustration, affection, admiration, confusion or longing he used to, “when are you coming to visit next?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? Have you got any 3s, John?”

John hands him and 7, and Sherlock makes a pair of it and his 3. “But you’re going to leave,” John says as he sets his cards down on the table and spreads them out, considering each individually.

Sherlock swallows difficultly. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he promises, “I never stay away for long, do I?”

“No,” John says with a smile, “Will you bring me gnomes tomorrow?”

“No, John.” Sherlock smiles as best he can and hands him a 9 for him to complete a pair. John matches it with a 6 and puts it aside.

“Okay,” John says.

*

“You can’t cut yourself off forever, you know,” Lestrade yells one night, hammering on the door. He’s shown up out of the blue and Sherlock almost thinks he might kick the door in.

“Leave me alone, Greg,” Sherlock says from the kitchen table, flipping through newly purchased neuroscience journals and a stack of reports he nicked from Mycroft.

“I will bloody not. This is unhealthy, Sherlock.” Sherlock can practically hear Lestrade rest a hand on the door and lean into it, the way he does when trying to intimidate witnesses. “I know you’re upset, but this is not the way to deal with it.”

“And how would you have me ‘deal’?” Sherlock asks, flipping a page.

“By living! You’ve played dead for three years, don’t continue to be so now that you’ve gotten back.” Lestrade sounds tired. “Listen, I know this is all a shock, I know John was… is special to you. He wouldn’t want this type of reaction from you.”

“Yes. Well, we don’t know what John would want, do we?” Sherlock snaps his books shut and stalks to his room, closing his door just loud enough for Lestrade to hear.

It’s useless. He can’t find anything.

*  
When it’s nice out, he takes John for walks around the hospital grounds. It’s a nice break from the sterile feel of the hospital, and John’s livelier in the fresh air. He holds onto Sherlock’s elbow and looks at everything with the wonderment of a child. He’s quiet, except for when Sherlock asks him questions. He is fascinated by everything around them, and looks up quite often; Sherlock assumes that he’s looking at the trees.

“D’you know,” John says suddenly one afternoon as they follow the gravel path, “that gnomes are a lot like watermelons?”

“Are they?” Sherlock asks, surprised by John’s initiation of conversation, even if it is just about his gnomes again.

“They are. When you drop them from way up high, they both break open and spill all over the place.”

Sherlock stops and turns to face John, mouth going dry. “Gnomes do this?” he asks.

“Yes.” John looks very sad a scuffs his feet in the dirt. “Yes, I’ve seen them. Most common way to loose a gnome, you know.”

“John, are you… you don’t mean Sherlock Holmes?”

“Homes?” John asks, looking confused. “No, no, I haven’t got a home, it’s gone. I had lost all my gnomes, you see, I was supposed to look after them. Said I wasn’t fit to live there, I couldn’t make tea anymore.” John suddenly brightens. “Did I tell you about the prize I won for brewing a cup of tea?”

But Sherlock is staring at John, not listening. Because John remembers, of course he does, how could he not, but he’s warped it and morphed everything in his mind so that nothing makes sense anymore. John cocks his head and looks up at Sherlock.

“Are you sad?” he asks.

“No, John, of course not, I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

*

The case of Lady Bradford and her missing schnauzer had some how morphed into them investigating crime rings in East London. They’ve pulled three all nighters in a row, been shot at, and, on Sherlock’s part, been admitted to the hospital. Now, back at Baker Street, going on their fourth night, Sherlock is running on pure adrenaline and the last important connection is staring him right in the face but he can’t figure it out. John is in the kitchen, making tea and sandwiches. They’ve barely had a moment to themselves in days.

“D’you want ham and cheese or corned beef?” John yawns as he digs around in the fridge.

“Tea.” Sherlock responds. He hears John sigh and the kettle whistle.

John putters for a bit as Sherlock stares at photos and then a ham sandwich is set down in front of him, crust cut off, and a mug of tea follows, smelling milky and sweet.

Without thinking, Sherlock captures John’s hand as it retreats and presses his lips to it, keeping it there. “Thank you,” he says, “I love you.”

“You’re going to figure this out,” John says, “you always do.” He rests his free hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder and leans into him.

Sherlock nods, “After this, we should get married,” he says, only half paying attention to what is coming out of his mouth. “Then next time I’m in the hospital, you can visit me.”

John chuckles into Sherlock’s hair, breath warm against his forehead. “That’s why we’re marrying, then? For the medical perks.”

“If we’re going to do it, we might as well be logical about it.”

“That’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.” John says, but Sherlock can feel him smiling.

“You do better than, that’s the… I’VE GOT IT!”

 

Sherlock thrashes awake, tears on his face, gold ring and chain hot on his chest. Sherlock clutches them, trying to stem the tears and calm his breathing. John remembers, he remembers everything. It’s still there, and Sherlock swears he’ll make him remember it properly, to come back to himself.

*

“John,” Sherlock says the next day. “I need you to remember.”

John looks up from fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. “Remember?” he asks, face sweet and hopeful. “What have I forgotten?”

“John, remember, it was me that jumped.” Sherlock takes John by the shoulders and looks at him in the eye. “It was me, I faked my death to protect you, but I’m back now.”

John looks confused, and he tries to pull back. “No…” he says, “No. Gnomes. I haven’t-“

“No, John.” Sherlock gives him a little shake. “No, John. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. It’s me. You must remember.”

“No,” John says. “No. Stop. I couldn’t protect them.”

“I know, I know. But I’m ok. You need to come back to me now, John.”

John just stares at him, and then, suddenly, “I GAVE THEM ALL WELLIES!” he shouts, voice catching and tearing in his throat. “You can’t blame me,” he says, pushing a stunned Sherlock off of him, “You can’t. What do you know, you weren’t there.”

“John,” Sherlock lunges back to clutch at John’s jacket. “John, please. Try. It’s me. I asked you to marry me. That was your reward for the tea. I know, ok? I know! And you told me that my proposal was awful.”

John struggles against him. “Stop! Bricks! God. They crushed us all! No, not you too, I won’t let you turn my men into your bastard wolves. They’re made of stronger stuff, their stomachs are filled with rain.”

“John, John. You told me it was awful and you asked me to marry you, instead. You went down on your knee at a crime scene and I couldn’t even bring myself to care about the body.” John tries to shake him off, making a sad keening sound in the back of his throat. “John, look. Look at this ring!” Sherlock pulls out the ring on the chain around his neck and brandishes it in John’s face.

John cowers back from him, his hands connecting with Sherlock’s chest and throwing him off balance. “No!” He sobs, beginning to cry. “No! I don’t want to! Please, will you let me go? I just want my gnomes back. Please, oh no, please don’t hurt me.” He collapses on the path, curled in around himself, crying. Sherlock steps back still holding his ring and staring at John.

“John, “he whispers, “John. I’m sorry.” He kneels down and reaches out to quiet him, his best friend, but John shies away, shivering.

“No,” John says, “I know your plots. You killed them all.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock chokes, and he realizes there are tears on his face. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

*

Sherlock wanders for a long time around London. It begins to rain about 8 in the evening, but Sherlock doesn’t notice. He keeps walking. He’s not sure where. There’s nothing left in his books, there’s nothing left of John and the life he had almost had. There’s just nothing.

Somehow, around midnight. Sherlock ends up at the Thames. He stands for a very long time staring into the water, black and restless beneath him; an empty abyss that is fuller and more hopeful than anything he’s had since he’s gotten back to London. It would be so easy, one little step. He doesn’t move forward, but he can’t step back. The water splashes softly, calling him and Sherlock feels himself leaning forward, toward the cold oblivion and escape.

Instead, he calls Lestrade and, for the first time, in a long, long while, asks for help.

 

*  
Nurse Anne had told him it would all right to come visit after a week. “He just needs to settle down. You scared him, but he’ll be asking for you before long. Trust me, Mr. Holmes.” As long as he was gentle and did nothing to upset Dr. Watson, he could come as soon as Sunday. Sherlock doesn’t go to visit John for three weeks, four days, and 10 hours. He can’t bring himself to even think about the frightened dark eyes and hands pushing at him blindly.

It’s not until after three weeks, four days and 9 hours that Anne phones him and asks him to come in. John, she says has been inconsolable and she thinks a familiar face might help.

Anne greets him at the door. “He’s in his room,” she says. “I thought it might be easier for you to see him there, and this way he wouldn’t upset the other patients.”

John’s room is small and white. There’s a big window that let’s in a cool breeze and a bed and dresser. On the dresser, there’s a picture of Harry and John, and a younger John in his military years. John is sitting on his bed, looking out at the blooming trees. Anne quietly waits by the door as Sherlock approaches John and sits down next to him on the mattress.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says gently. “They say you aren’t feeling well.”

John turns and looks him, carefully. Then he offers a tentative smile. “You were gone a long time,” he says. “You said you’d never stay away for that long. I was worried they got you.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock says, and he is. “I should have come to see you sooner. Are you all right?”

John looks down at his clasped hands in his lap. “I can’t loose my gnomes again. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, and he slips an arm around John’s shoulders. “But here I am, safe and sound. And here you are. We’re not so bad off, are we?”

“No,” John says. “No, we’re not.”


End file.
